


It's Always 3 AM Somewhere

by resiate



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hints of France / Other, Hints of usuk, M/M, canonverse technically, personal, pillowtalk, pretty purple prose-y
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7009498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resiate/pseuds/resiate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the dark corners of the morning, while neither of them are thinking properly, Francis makes a promise he cannot keep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> there were super personal notes here before but im like (shrug emoji(

Arthur just isn’t quite sure what to do with a silent house at three in the morning.

Certainly, he’s dealt with it before – having nothing to do and no will to sleep as the ghosts of cars pass outside and the rain comes down in idle drizzles – but he tends to get caught when there’s someone else in bed with him. He knows that he’ll wake his partner up if he gets up and starts walking around, but god, his hands are itching to do something, and watching for vague traces of life out the window is maddening.

He sits up anyway, when the sheets start to rub at him one too many times, stomach doing a rather strange flattening thing as he slumps over himself and soaks in the silence. The darkness and quiet presses itself into his insides and crawls over each ridge of his bare spine. He would feel like musing, if the urge to do something wasn't so commanding, so he feels over his own bony wrists, skin pale even in the dim light.

The bubble of untouched sound puts him on edge, he will admit. Whenever a car comes down the stretch of road in front of the house, he breaks out into a sweat and blinks at the window until he reminds himself that it’s nothing and goes back to flexing his fingers. Such vague poetry tosses itself through his mind, stringing itself together, and he thinks of many things he shouldn’t, but finds himself not bothered by most of it. 

He starts when the body next to him stirs, and strains to focus on the face peeking over a shoulder next to him.

“Mmphhh. What time is it?” Francis grunts.

“Three-ish.”

There’s a scoff, and the face disappears. “Go to sleep, Arthur, for the love of God.”

“Tch. Did I wake you up?”

“A little.” Francis tries to settle in again, then stretches his shoulders and turns back around so Arthur can see his sleepy face, long hair all splayed over the pillows and falling in little curls in front of his eyes.

Despite himself, Arthur smirks at the sight.

“Ohhhh, poor baby. You’ll live.”

Said baby whines and mutters about injustice, then buries himself in his pillow, sighing. “What are you doing up, anyway?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“I should have known,” Francis huffs.  
“You do an awful lot of bitching when you get woken up off-schedule, don't you.” Arthur leans down on an elbow over Francis, brushing fingertips across his forehead to move his stray hair. When he flinches away and makes a noise, Arthur makes the excuse, “Hold on, then, I’m fixing your hair.”

Francis hums as Arthur runs his fingers gently through blonde locks, the silence a strained kind of comfortable. Arthur swallows, heart rising a bit. There are a lot of things he could get away with while Francis is mostly still asleep, he realizes, so he leans down, hesitantly brushing his lips on Francis's brow.

“Thinking about something?” Francis says. He settles onto his back and sneaks a hand somewhere along Arthur’s side. It’s startlingly warm, and Arthur jumps just a bit, but otherwise continues to hover over him, combing his soft hair back and through.

“When am I not?” he murmurs.

The hand on his side trails over his skin, and a finger starts tracing circles on his ribs. It tickles. “Anything specific?”

Arthur sighs. “I’m getting old.”

Francis grins, though the corners of his mouth don't reach his eyes, and looks up at Arthur through his eyelashes. “So am I.”

“Hmph. It just feels – weird, sometimes, is all, you know.”

“Of course I do.”

Arthur opens his mouth to retort, and comes up with nothing.

There is such a heaviness and a clarity behind that statement that it drags Arthur’s whole heart down to the floor with it, and he tries to swallow the ache in his chest away, averting his eyes. Quite finished with playing with Francis’s hair, he shifts back onto his pillow and stares at the ceiling. The hand on his side retreats, and he can feel Francis’s eyes on him, though he doesn’t mind the attention all that much.

They both know how many years have gone by just like this, and the horrible truth is that they still have more in front of them than they do behind. Arthur, at several thousand years, feels more and more like a withering old man with each passing day. He often finds himself reminiscing on his 'golden years', the bright days of having the world in his hand, fighting with a fiery purpose in his soul, happy with himself, if not selfish... Not that, he supposes, he ever wasn’t. It's just that his birth certificate says he's twenty-three, and he feels, more and more every day, like he can't wake up from a bad, bad dream, where all he can fathom to be is tired and angry.

Francis is a different matter entirely, of course.

“What about us?” Arthur mutters.

“Hm?” Francis fidgets around some more. Arthur feels his gaze leave the side of his face. “What about us?”

“I don’t know. I – I mean – can we keep on doing this?” He gestures to the bed, and his own naked chest. “We fight and argue and war and then there’s this side that’s all – mopey, and lovey-dovey and – well, you know – and I can’t say it doesn’t bother me sometimes that we never – acknowledge it.”

Francis ponders that for a great, great while. The silence is almost palpable, and for once, Arthur turns, with measurable concern, to Francis. Finally, he feels and sees a hand creep up over his palm, fingers fitting themselves into the spaces between his own. 

“You are my best friend beyond what words can measure,” Francis says carefully, as if he’s tasting the words, “And you always have been. And even if I were to be in love with you, I think, perhaps, we have gotten too comfortable with ourselves like this to make it work.”

He seems almost saddened by this, Arthur notices. 

Then, he realizes: it’s rare, a moment like this, where neither of them are yelling or even bickering or blaming or cursing or snapping. No, they almost never just discuss these very untouched, heavy questions, and Arthur can feel pressure on his chest from how peculiar it is. It hurts a bit more to know that these episodes are becoming more frequent. They really are getting old, and Arthur is both afraid and regretful.

Unable to say anything, shaking just a little around the wrists, he brings Francis’s hand down and kisses his knuckles. He readies his next question with a deep, cleansing breath. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“In love with me?”

Francis chuckles flatly and shifts up onto his elbow, looking down at Arthur – who, in turn, finds his heart giving out on him for just a moment. The moonlight brushes Francis's smooth peach skin with soft strokes, catching in his hair and sparkling in his old, blue eyes. He's gorgeous. Arthur pretends to keep his composure, though he feels a tad dizzy.

Francis takes a long, long time to say two words. “Oui, sometimes.”

Arthur blinks and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, getting up on one elbow along with Francis and studying his tired face carefully. “What do you mean, sometimes? I’m blummin’ fantastic, just ‘sometimes’ doesn’t cut it.”

Francis cackles and plants a kiss just beside Arthur’s nose. “You are a delight.”

“You’re fuckin’ right I am.”

Arthur sighs and returns that kiss on Francis’s jaw, lingering there for his stubble. He considers his options, then decides to rest his cheek against his lover's, because the soft tickle of a not-quite-shaven face is nice on his sore jaw. Francis leans into it, making a low noise in his throat. They sit there, like that, for long enough to be considered intimate. Arthur itches, but doesn't move away.

For once, Francis starts the conversation back up. “I – I was wondering about Alfred.”

“Hmmm. What about him.”

Maybe Francis can tell it’s a bit of a topic with him, because he nuzzles him again, shifting closer. “How do you feel about him? Are you going to go for it?”

Arthur scoffs. “Go for what?”

“Asking him out or something. Telling him how you feel, I suppose.”

The thought makes Arthur reel a little bit, and, however nice Francis smells and feels, he has to pull away and fall back onto his pillow.

“Well?” Francis huffs.

“There’s nothing ‘well’ about it. I – no. I don’t think I am.”

Francis gives a heavy sigh and lets go of Arthur’s hand, turning away. Arthur turns to see nothing but Francis's back, the curve of his shoulderblades as he resettles into his pillow, and his heart stammers, because suddenly he's been stranded.

“Call me when you do. You really need to get that sorted out, you know,” Francis mutters.

“As if you don’t have things to sort out yourself!”Asshole. Arthur doesn't mean to be offended, but the hypocrisy hits him somewhere below the ribs. “What about –“

“None of your business.”

“As if it isn’t any of my bloody business!” Arthur props himself up, giving the back of Francis's head an icy, incredulous glare. “You show up at my doorstep every two weeks to 'sort things out' and, as far as I know, there is no end in sight to this pattern, and if you keep doing it, then I'm going to keep doing it, and we're both going to keep hurting him more, so how in the hell do you plan on fixing it?”

“I do not know, Arthur,” Francis says firmly.

“Well you’d better figure it out right quick then, haven’t you?”

“What do you want from me?” Francis sits, returning the glare. “Yes, I love you. Yes, I love him. Yes, we are all deeply wounded by this, as it is very, very problematic and emotionally distressing for the three of us because he does not quite seem to understand. Yes, I must solve this issue, but in the meantime, you cannot blame your own choices on my actions and – and I find it incredibly low of you to do so.” He rakes his tousled hair from his eyes. “The solution is mine to discover, now drop this before you hurt yourself.”

“I can't _bloody_ well hurt myself more than the _shit_ you've done to me,” Arthur spits before he can think. 

That was the only thing he needed to say, and frankly, he didn't mean to say it at all. The damage is done, however. Francis's eyebrows knit up against his forehead, frown lines showing against his cheeks. They hold eye contact for a moment before Francis sinks onto the pillows, effectively closing the window of conversation Arthur had to make up for whatever he said. He stares at Francis's back for a while, hoping to find some kind of answer in the crook of his hips or the indent of his spine, but his return is empty. He closes his eyes and lays back against his headboard, pillow under his back.

Any and all intruding noise returns to barely audible breathing, the slight rain outside, and the occasional passing cars, silence malevolent and imposing as before. Arthur realizes that he hurts, still. 

There’s a cinching in his stomach and his chest, because he wants to talk to Francis again, just talk – not argue or sigh or even think about how old they are, he wants that feeling of being alone with Francis in the world, drifting along like two suffering vagabonds. He wants to sit at his balcony and have a dinner in the creamy orange light of sunset and talk quietly over things, like how their days were and how they’re going to spend tomorrow and how they’re going to solve the basic human problems they encounter. Human – that must be right. Arthur wants Francis because Francis makes him feel human. 

He figures his lover is asleep by now. Well, he hopes so, anyway, because his head spins a little when he opens his eyes again, slightly anxious as he reevaluates the bare plain of Francis's back. Sighing, he adjusts a little at a time until he's more or less flush to Francis's back. Worming his arms over his waist and under his arms to hug him, he tries to get comfortable as the big spoon without getting himself pushed away. When he warrants no reaction other than a slight stir, he leans his forehead on the back of Francis's neck, breathing him in again. He’s a mix of sex sweat, cigarette smoke and spices, something like cinnamon from a candle, sweet but with a bite. It smells like comfort, like a bakery, like home. 

Arthur is taken with a flush of hatred. Francis smells like home to him, and he wants to kill him.

Francis shifts, and Arthur moves to retreat almost instantly – however, Francis mutters something in protest and pins his arms at his sides. He's trapped while Francis rolls over, slowly, in what Arthur can only assume is the most agonizing possible way he could have. Warm, firm arms wrap around him, and he's drowned in that maddening scent to oblivion, until he can't physically be angry anymore. He relaxes and sighs, finding somewhere on Francis to hold – bitter, but content.

“I'm sorry,” he muffles into Francis's shoulder.

“No, no,” Francis says. Barely even a whisper. His hands are in Arthur's hair, combing over it. “I need to apologize more.”

“It's not a contest.”

“Exactly. Which is why I need to apologize, and I need you to know it's not in reciprocation of your apology.” 

Arthur shakes his head, rolls his eyes.

“Arthur,” Francis starts grimly. He loosens the hug, and when Arthur looks up, it's into deep, deep wells of glimmering, kind blue. “I've hurt you. I didn't – realize, before, what I was doing. I understand it hurt all of us, but all I was accepting was how it affected me and me only, and... so I keep trying to fix it by myself without asking either of you what you think.”

The exhaustion wells in Arthur, and he sighs it all out through his nose. “So, then? Have you reached some kind of conclusion?”

The response is pointed silence. It's always the goddamned silence, the quiet, the rustling of rain, the white noise burning static into the back of his head. Francis breathes deeply, twice.

“I want to be with him,” he says.

“That's okay,” Arthur responds, almost at once.

Francis throws him a suspicious look.

Admittedly, he did not want to reply that fast. There's a lot Francis's statement suggests, not the least of which being that his dicking about with two men at the same time could permanently ruin his credibility as a human being, but Arthur doesn't actually care about any of it. He just wants Francis there for him, to hug and talk to and muse with, that's all. 

“Honestly, it is,” Arthur says, forcing more sincerity than necessary into the statement. “I couldn't give two raggedy shits who you want to stick it in, all I care about is that you come back.”

Francis shows him a placid smirk and raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, as long as I can come home at the end of the day and know that I can trust you,” he says. “I don't know if I can, but if you're willing to commit to that – to him? Then by all means. I just – I want to talk with you again, Francis.” His face takes on some kind of hurt puppy look, he knows, and it pisses him off to a certain degree. “I want to sit under the porch and complain about being old as Christ's ballsacks and our plans for what comes next. I want to tell you all about the fact I feel like I'm dying and empty and I want you to say that you are, too, because it's all I can think about. I want to have dinner with you, for once, for the love of God, can't I have that? If he gets you, can I have my best friend back?”

He's probably said too much, but that's alright. It's what needed to be out there. Francis opens his mouth several times, and each time he closes it without saying anything, the pain on his face becomes more severe. Arthur steels himself for whatever is going to happen next.

He does not prepare himself for a hug, and a hoarse whisper of, “Okay, I promise.”

He fumbles, blinking. His arms hug back, although he didn't have any conscious say in the matter. “You – you promise?”

“You'll have him back, Arthur,” Francis says. His voice is thin, but his words are huge. He smiles into Arthur's shoulder, sniffling all the while. “I promise you.”

It sinks in, finally. That's a promise. 

Arthur believes him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For best results, listen with "Take Me Somewhere Nice" by Mogwai.  
> Also, the pool thing actually happened in RP format.
> 
> ALSO I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT HAPPENED TO THE FORMATTING. I'LL WRESTLE WITH IT LATER. PRETEND THERE ARE ITALICS IN PLACES.
> 
> Thanks for taking this journey with me, pals. I'll see you next time with a different fandom fic.

It's raining, and Francis is on his doorstep.

Arthur slides his hand up the door frame, studying soaked clothes and hair plastered to a pale, overtired face – his eyes are red and he looks like he's been awake for months. For all Arthur knows, he has. Some part of him wants to pity the poor soul, but the foremost emotion that wells in his chest is pain, bitterness.

There's a lot he could say. _Where have you been? Why are you here now? Are you as dead inside as you look outside? Do you have any shame? Pride? Sense of self-preservation?_ The silence draws out as he tries to pick something, with Francis dripping pathetically on the porch all the while. 

_Do you have any explanation for this? Do you think disappearing for four years didn't affect me in any way, like this is something I'm just going to forgive for some reason, after what just happened to this family? Is that what you think?_

_...Are you alright?_

Finally, after the dense, uncomfortable silence, drawn out by the drumming of rain on his porch and the roof of his house, Arthur plucks a phrase from the din of his brain. “Hello.” Cold. Easy. Simple. 

__Francis's teeth chatter. They're very white and polished, almost to an unnatural degree. His eyes shine and his shoulders tremble. He's two seconds from breaking down, Arthur can tell. It looks like a tremendous effort just to gather his voice._ _

__Eventually: “H-hi.”_ _

__The acidic things hanging around unspoken are fairly obvious, Arthur thinks. The air is heavy and black, and it clings to Arthur's blood._ _

___I don't want you here._ Instead, Arthur says, “Would you like to come inside?”_ _

__Again, Francis is processing slowly today. Arthur would be fine with it if it weren't piss cold and damp and clammy outside, which is now leaking into his house. His ankles are getting chilly._ _

__“I-I don't know,” Francis says._ _

__Arthur frowns in confusion._ _

__“You had four hours on a cramped train to think about the answer to that question, and you're going to waste it on dramatics?” He sighs, which is more like a hiss of thick, black anger through the slim gaps in his teeth. “At least come out of the rain.”_ _

__“Do you – would you –“ Francis stammers. His face scrunches in frustration, lips thinning into a line. He presents his palms, and a calmer, albeit still wounded, countenance. “Am I allowed?”_ _

__Arthur snorts. “Allowed? Yes.”_ _

__“Welcome, no.”_ _

__He's been gone for so long, now, that Arthur is genuinely surprised at how well Francis still knows him._ _

__“Can you just come inside?” Arthur says. Somehow, he feels cheated out of the choice._ _

__Wordlessly, Francis shivers inside, trailing big pools of rain onto Arthur's beautiful polished hardwood. On any other day, he'd have the gumption to scold him for it, but for now, he just takes the Frenchman's coat and hangs it up outside._ _

__“Tea?” he asks, closing the door at last._ _

__Francis does not answer. Francis stands there, holding his own arms by the elbows. His eyes are still puffy and red, but rather than wide and scared, they look on the verge of sleep, or death. Arthur snaps in front of him a couple times._ _

__“Huh?” Francis barely turns his head._ _

__“I asked if you'd like some tea. It's c – _hey. _”_ ___

____No matter what, Francis's hands are always warm, even when he's freezing – and they're on Arthur's sides, pulling him closer, into an intimate sort of hug that makes his skin ache. The heat bleeds through his thick wool sweater, and shows up on his neck in the form of Francis's shaky breathing._ _ _ _

____God above, he wants to throttle this man._ _ _ _

____His hands make hard fists at Francis's back, and his eyebrows furrow, and his jaw sets. He knows there's a vein on his forehead that's starting to draw a shadow. He hugs the miserable bastard as tight as he's allowed, and Francis reciprocates adequately. His shirt is damp from the rain, but Arthur feels more warmth radiating from under it. It's dark and stuffy in Francis's arms, and smells of wet hair._ _ _ _

____Wet hair, and cinnamon._ _ _ _

____Francis manages to squeeze most of the hate out of Arthur after a couple moments, which leaves room in Arthur's lungs for actual air instead of bile. Their arms loosen up, and Arthur sighs the rest of the anger out._ _ _ _

____He pulls away, but Francis has his sweater bunched up in his fists, at the sides, just above his hips. Arthur leans against the poor man's forehead, his arms slack around broad shoulders._ _ _ _

____“And where, in every hell there is, have you been,” he says._ _ _ _

____Francis gives up the ghost and sobs. His knees buckle, and Arthur barely catches him before he clings, trembling viscerally. “...Lost.”_ _ _ _

____While Arthur embraces him, he's less willing to stand there while Francis erupts into raw, undiluted sorrow. As the older man falls apart, Arthur drags him into the kitchen by the shoulders, sitting them both down at the table and letting Francis disappear into his sweater._ _ _ _

____His crying sounds physically painful. There's nothing much to say. Arthur just strokes damp, blonde hair, curling the longer strands around his fingers, waiting for it to end. Fingers dig into his back, sometimes letting up the pressure and sometimes clawing with full force._ _ _ _

____The mourning dies out after what feels like three hours. Francis lets him go and wipes his face. His eyes are bright, stinging red, and the blue inside is dull and lifeless. He makes an attempt to apologize, but Arthur stands instead and takes him by the arm, coaxing him to the bedroom. He forces a fresh set of comfy clothes into his arms and closes him in the bathroom with orders to take a long, warm shower._ _ _ _

____The house goes quiet. Arthur waits outside the bedroom until he hears the water turn on, then returns to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He reads Hamlet distractedly at the table while he waits for the water to boil. When it does, he lets the whistle shriek for almost a full minute before taking it off the stove. One cup gets a bag of lemon balm with rose hips and honey, and the other gets chamomile. He touches neither while they steep, still listening for the water to turn off._ _ _ _

____He goes through the entirety of Act IV without processing a word. Ophelia drowns and he's not paying attention. It just makes him feel busy, while the silence soaks back into the creaking floorboards and slouching walls._ _ _ _

____Francis wanders back into the kitchen with an air of steam, and considerable calm. The clothes don't seem to fit him like they fit Arthur – he's gained weight, both in muscle and fat, and a sweater that Arthur usually swims in hugs Francis's chest and arms. However, the pajama bottoms seem suitable. He shuffles to the counter and points to the teacups._ _ _ _

____“Is one of these for me?” he says._ _ _ _

____“The left is lemon balm, the right is chamomile,” Arthur replies, while pretending to still be reading. “Pick whichever one sounds better to you. They both do the same thing.”_ _ _ _

____After some time, Francis takes the lemon balm cup and sits at the table. Arthur damn near slams his book shut and grabs the chamomile cup, sitting with him. The rain drones on over their heads. The kitchen starts to feel a little warmer. Arthur thinks maybe the furnace has kicked on, or perhaps it's just the tea. He hazards closing his eyes._ _ _ _

____“This is very good,” Francis says, quietly._ _ _ _

____Arthur's eyes open again. He knew something was wrong. The quiet is back in full force – aching, churning, lying stagnant on the house. He remembers this quiet. It's the harsh taste of something unfathomably tragic going unsaid._ _ _ _

____One of them will say it eventually. For now, Arthur takes another sip of tea to fight the feeling._ _ _ _

____“Are you still in contact with Alfred?” Francis says._ _ _ _

____“Oh?” Arthur hums. “He told me he's left you messages.” He casts his eyes up. Francis is looking at his tea, with something like shame on his features. He looks... small, and every bit as tired as Arthur feels._ _ _ _

____“I cut the phone cord a long time ago,” he mutters._ _ _ _

____“On your mobile.”_ _ _ _

____Francis has nothing to say to that. His thumb works the rim of the teacup, and at the same time, his teeth graze over his bottom lip._ _ _ _

____“I used to fly out for his birthday,” he says at last. Every word out of his mouth is heavy. “We watched the fireworks, and everything.”_ _ _ _

____“He tried to fly out for yours, so he told me,” Arthur says._ _ _ _

____Although he understands every bit of why Francis keeps responding selectively, it doesn't help his mood much. The guilty pause he gets as a reply sours his expression. It balloons out to the corners of the kitchen, staying for far too long, and Arthur at last accepts he isn't going to be graced with any kind of answer. With a scowl, he sucks down the rest of his tea and gives his bookshelf a venomous glare._ _ _ _

____“You didn't have to do this,” Francis says. His voice gets fainter every time he speaks._ _ _ _

____“No, I really didn't,” Arthur scoffs. “But I did. And you better damn well be grateful.”_ _ _ _

____Whereas before, Francis appeared devastated and tired, his face is now blank. Arthur flushes in rage, mostly at himself for biting at someone with obvious wounds, no less someone he _very_ much cares about._ _ _ _

____“I'm sorry,” he spits._ _ _ _

____“It's fine.”_ _ _ _

____It's clearly not fine._ _ _ _

____Arthur bristles and shoots to his feet, pouring temperate water over his tea. Seeing as he's already asked one of the questions on his mind, that being _where have you been,_ with mild to moderate success, he sees no reason to prolong the inevitable. He's been kicked out of Francis's life and is now expected to accept him back in without protest. His chest feels cavernous and sore. He turns to face Francis, but leans against the counter instead of sitting._ _ _ _

____“Why are you here?” he asks, with purpose._ _ _ _

____Francis shrugs._ _ _ _

____“That's not a goddamn answer, Bonnefoy.”_ _ _ _

____The most Francis gives him is vacant blinking._ _ _ _

____“You show up at my door, you use my shower, you wear my clothes, and you drink my tea, _none_ of which I was required to provide for you, and I think I deserve an answer!” His blood roils. He doesn't mention the part about them hugging and Arthur realizing, with staggering clarity, that he hungers to be touched again. “Why are you here?”_ _ _ _

____“I have nowhere else to go,” Francis says._ _ _ _

____The fact he answered catches Arthur off guard, more so than the actual answer. He purses his lips and takes a deep breath, reevaluating his tactics. He's picking a fight with someone who, from the looks of things, has exhausted every last bit of his strength and will to fight back. In fact, he's hardly touched his tea._ _ _ _

____Still. Arthur wants closure._ _ _ _

____“What do you mean, you have nowhere to go?” he asks._ _ _ _

____Francis rubs his face, and heaves a sigh. Arthur feels like maybe he wasn't breathing at all up to that point. “My house is empty. I'm scared of being in an empty house.”_ _ _ _

____“You have a sister.”_ _ _ _

____“She moved to Bordeaux two years ago.”_ _ _ _

____“Why?”_ _ _ _

____“She couldn't stand me anymore.”_ _ _ _

____“Stop the self-pity act for three seconds and give me a straight answer, would you? You could have stayed and instead –”_ _ _ _

____“Please, Arthur.”_ _ _ _

____The sentence Arthur prepared dies on his tongue instead, forcing his mouth shut. It never occurred to him that the things Arthur doesn't want to talk about and the things Francis doesn't want to talk about are different. He tries to reason his way into pressing for more information, but he sees tears slipping down the long side of Francis's nose, silently, while he holds his head in a hand. His eyes are dead._ _ _ _

____Arthur swallows his retort, and feels sadness bubble up in his throat instead. He let his best friend out of his sight for more than a few months, and he's been returned broken._ _ _ _

_____God. I'm just making it worse, aren't I?_ _ _ _ _

____Slowly, Arthur lowers his guard, and his eyes, sinking back into the seat at the end of the table. He wants to apologize, but doesn't want to give him that satisfaction, not while he still has questions._ _ _ _

____“Did you expect me to forgive you?” Arthur says._ _ _ _

____“For breaking my promise?” Francis replies._ _ _ _

____Arthur's cheeks sting like he's been slapped._ _ _ _

____Sniffing, Francis wipes the tears from his nose with one hand, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. It's hard to say what he's looking at, but he shifts his fingers and relaxes against the back of the chair._ _ _ _

____“I would like to say I came here thinking you'd turn me down, but honestly, yes, I did expect you to forgive me,” he says. His voice is returning from the edges of frailty, back into the territory of flat and firm. “I had this idea that you'd yell at me for leaving and then forget it.”_ _ _ _

____“Well.” Arthur wets his lips. “I commend you for your honesty.”_ _ _ _

____“Anything else?”_ _ _ _

____“Huh?”_ _ _ _

____“I'll take my leave, if you don't want me here. Is there anything else you want to say?”_ _ _ _

____For what feels like the first time that evening, they lock eyes. Francis's gaze is cold and mundane and breaks Arthur's heart, if only for a moment. He gathers himself quickly and arranges his face to be at least somewhat discontented._ _ _ _

____“Why -- _why_ am I your last resort?” he says. Immediately, he puts his foot in his mouth, because he'd meant to ask something else, but his mind races to remember what it was and can't._ _ _ _

____Francis huffs out a low, humorless chuckle and stares at some point on his lap. His smile is resentful._ _ _ _

____“You know. He used to ask me the same thing, almost every time,” he says._ _ _ _

____Arthur is stunned into silence._ _ _ _

____Francis taps the table with a knuckle and sighs again. “I spent the better half of those four years just making sure he was happy and alive. Just – alive. Alive was good for me. When he wasn't sick he was trying to die and when he wasn't sad he was complaining of the times he was.”_ _ _ _

____Maybe they're not thinking of the same person. The only time Arthur remembers him in the light Francis describes is the few decades he spent literally starving. Arthur could count his ribs, then, but the last time Arthur saw him alive, he was smiling._ _ _ _

____In his reminiscing, Arthur missed Francis shifting forward to hold his head in both hands. He can't see the man's face anymore, and it's more distressing than he'd like._ _ _ _

____“I spent so much time trying to make sure he got healthy again, Arthur,” Francis says, and his voice shakes. “I spent so much of my life worrying that he would never get better, but I never –“ His breath catches, and he starts over. “Of all the terrible, awful things I have been through, I never actually thought that he would die. I thought that, if I kept an eye on him, if he was in my – literally, in my sight, if I didn't look away, nothing bad would happen to him.”_ _ _ _

____The rain gets louder. Arthur thinks that maybe it thunders somewhere in the distance, over Epsom. He just stares. His hands tingle and his face has gone cold and his ears are ringing._ _ _ _

____Francis takes a shuddering breath and rakes his hands over his hair, fingers locking at the back of his neck. “I... hurt. I hurt him, mmh.” He pauses. Arthur realizes he's swallowing. “He gave me a second chance, and then a third and a fourth, and by the time I figured out what I was doing, I lost him for good.” Then, with a hefty shiver, he laughs. “I bought him a pool for his birthday one year.”_ _ _ _

____“A – a pool?” Arthur interjects, again without meaning._ _ _ _

____Francis reveals his face, and – Arthur's breath all but leaves him, because that bastard's eyes are shining again. With tears, yes, but they're not glassy anymore, and Arthur didn't understand before how much that was killing him._ _ _ _

____“He – he said he wanted a pool, kind of out of hand, so I just put – I put one of those inflatable kiddie pools in his backyard, with the receipt for the real one in it, and he laughed so hard,” he explains. He laughs again, and his whole body lurches. Arthur reaches out unconsciously to catch him, but he braces himself on the table and takes another strained breath. “And – and the next year, he – well, he had this sweet little cat named Alex, and, um –“_ _ _ _

____He's long since burst into tears, and his body is evidently rejecting the thought of him trying to talk, because it keeps twitching and fitting, but he rubs his forehead and takes deep breaths and pushes forward. “Um, when he got sick a couple years ago, he couldn't take care of her anymore, so he gave her away, and the next year he – he was better, so I got him – mmm – a-a kitt-en.” He sobs, but he's smiling. It might have been a laugh. “I don't know what his name was. He died young.”_ _ _ _

____Arthur wants to say something and cannot. He tries for words, and comes up empty. Instead, he reaches over and cups one of Francis's hands. Francis weeps, and doubles over forward suddenly, but rights himself again. Tears fall onto the back of Arthur's knuckles._ _ _ _

____“I can't believe he's gone, Arthur, I can't, I don't – want to,” he hiccups._ _ _ _

____“I know,” Arthur mutters._ _ _ _

____“I've – I keep coming to people and-and crying about it and it d-d – _hhhh_ – it doesn't get any better, I keep crying and thinking, now, now I've cried it - all of it out and - then when I leave I - think it's all over and I can wake up - and it'll feel better - and I keep going back by myself and - expecting it to – get better –”_ _ _ _

____Francis is naked. He's covered in a sweater and pajamas and long hair, but he's broken and bleeding all over the place, and Arthur has only seen this side in the worst times. He's worked himself back up into a bawl, and it's all Arthur can do to just grit his teeth and hush him and try to ride it out. He doesn't hug him, because his arms have lost their structure. He just sighs and watches Francis's head fall to the table, hidden in his elbow. Again, he sobs violently, and again, Arthur can only sit by._ _ _ _

____And then, in the excess of darkness:_ _ _ _

____“Help – help me, Arthur, _please,_ I hurt – I hurt so much – _it hurts so much, I just can't do it._ ”_ _ _ _

____The truth takes the air out of his whole body._ _ _ _

____It hits him like a twenty-megaton bomb and leaves him flat. Thunder moves closer overhead as Arthur's knuckles tighten around Francis's hand. He was in Paris four years ago, watching the cars go by, listening to the rain, steeping in discomfort, and he heard the promise of his best friend back and it was broken. He thought, he swore, it was on purpose, like some poetic justice for the shit he'd done. He thought he deserved the invasive silence, the volatile nothing, the depressed air choking him with every breath._ _ _ _

____He's asked every other question he initially had. Now he takes a breath, and softens. He's still tired. So is Francis, but - well, Francis must be on the edge of something worse than death._ _ _ _

____Some part of him _has_ died._ _ _ _

____Arthur mulls it over for a little. When Francis starts to calm down, he realizes he only has one thing left to ask – just to reach out and hope they can start to heal the damage together. There's no use in going it alone, anymore. He's learned from long, hard years of experience that holding a grudge gets him nowhere._ _ _ _

____He breathes, and the air is clearer. The rain is less a drum and more a refreshing background noise. It's cooler, and he's going to be fine, for now. The silence is gone. There's long hours of listening ahead, and Arthur is ready._ _ _ _

____He only has one thing left to ask._ _ _ _

____“...Are you alright?”_ _ _ _


End file.
